


How Do You Spell "Love"?

by running_with_stars



Category: GOT7
Genre: "canon" god I hate myself, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, Barista!Im Jaebeom, CEO!Jackson Wang, Car Accidents, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, God it physically hurt spelling his name like that, Im Jaebeom has a daughter, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Man I dunno I'm just running with it at this point, Multi, Oh yes, Oh yes it gets rough, Parenthood, Pediatrician!Park Jinyoung, Polyamory, Post-Break Up, Read it I guess?, Romance, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, They're all morons, This was inspired by a moot's prompt on twitter, What else do I call it, anyway, because it's both, god fucking i don't know, gotta keep you on your toes, pre-canon jinson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/running_with_stars/pseuds/running_with_stars
Summary: Jinyoung finds himself walking the line between stability and insanity every day of his life, and it’s within that balance that he finds comfort. He finds it easy to treat patients, to ease the worries of parents, to make the world a better place in whatever way he’s able.With the combination of new and old flings, however, Jinyoung struggles to keep himself on that fine line. He simply has to decide whether he’s going to let himself be torn away from that balance, or find stability in souls knitted with his.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Jackson Wang, Im Jaebum | JB/Park Jinyoung, Im Jaebum | JB/Park Jinyoung/Jackson Wang, Park Jinyoung/Jackson Wang
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	1. Topsy-Turvy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of literally the same work--same title, same plot, same characters. I just had to do some reshuffling for my accounts and things.

If Jinyoung could light a match and send it all the way to the sky just to tick off Mother Nature, he would. It would only be fair, seeing as she was dumping an ocean’s worth of rain onto his head purely for shits and giggles. He felt his jaw set in annoyance, praying to whatever pair of ears was listening that his laptop wasn’t getting soaked inside his briefcase.

It was easily five in the morning, yet he hadn’t slept since fuck-knows-when. All he could remember from the past however-many hours was the coughs of that little girl, the deafening silence of a sterile operating room, the naively brave smile of the boy on the brink of death. Jinyoung pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his stomach to ease itself until he made it home.

Jinyoung sighed as he looked around, welcoming the stinging pain in his eyes as he stared up into a streetlamp. He cursed under his breath, rounding the corner that would take him one block closer to his building, though even that felt too far.

He hadn’t expected, however, to ram into what may as well have been a brick wall.

Jinyoung’s ears rung for a moment, a bright pain blossoming on his forehead. There were hands on his shoulders and a voice calling out to him, but over the rain and the ringing and the tiredness, Jinyoung missed it all.

“What?” he grouched.

“Are you okay?”

Jinyoung cracked open his eyes, all too aware of how he was soaked to the bone and very much in need of a warm bed, hoping to place a face to the disembodied voice before him.

And, if he was being honest, he wasn’t disappointed.

The hindrance with a voice like song was a pleasant sight, what with his damp white shirt and sloping nose. Jinyoung thought the water droplets clinging to his lashes and the sharp line of his jaw were something a poet would write about, yet none of this did anything to dull the edge of his annoyance.

No, it was sharpened when he saw the crates at the feet of this stranger.

“Someone could have gotten hurt,” Jinyoung pointed out. Not that he much cared, but he felt it was important to point out.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to take you—”

“Do _not_ say the hospital.” Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed as that same fatigue resurged, eager to come back on the heels of adrenaline. “I don’t think I ever want to go back.”

“What?”

Jinyoung knew his patience was threadbare, and he wasn’t in the mood to take it out on the unsuspecting stranger in the white shirt. With a resolve to just march home, potential blacking out be damned, Jinyoung continued down the street.

“Hold on.”

A hand grasped his elbow, touch warm even through layers of drenched fabric. Jinyoung had half a mind to gnaw it off.

“You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Astute observation, Captain Obvious. How about letting me _go home_?”

White Shirt didn’t seem fazed by the bite in Jinyoung’s tone, nor the water matting his hair down onto his forehead. Jinyoung, contrastingly, felt he would never be dry enough after this. And to think, he was only in this situation because he’d lent his umbrella to Mark. Jinyoung wondered what sort of laxative he’d be able to sneak from the pharmacy as payback.

 _Would I get fired for that? God, I hope not._ Jinyoung glared at nothing in particular. Can _they even fire me?_

He was about to walk away when he caught the scent of something strange beneath the car exhaust and petrichor; it was bitter and strong, clinging to his senses like soft taffy, and Jinyoung was almost certain he’d never been so happy in his life.

“Is that coffee?”

“Yes?”

Jinyoung’s body decided he needed the jumpstart before his mind did. The warmth that swaddled him upon entering the café was welcomed, and Jinyoung shook a hand through his hair to dry it as much as he could. He spotted a chair, feet carrying him over and plopping him down before he could think too hard about it. Ignoring the squelch he made as he sat, Jinyoung loosed a sigh. Only when felt himself relax into the cool glass behind him did he take in the appearance of the shop.

The lights were dim, almost gentle compared to the bleaching street lights and multicoloured signs of Seoul. Sky blue fabrics played off the warm, worn wicker materials—and Jinyoung had no energy to care about it any more.

“So, you sell coffee, right?”

White Shirt brought the crates back in with a small huff, peering at Jinyoung from under his brow as if he were studying a strange plant.

“I do.”

Jinyoung reached into his pocket, which was _disgustingly_ wet, and pulled out his wallet. “Whatever is your darkest, most grotesque brew.”

“I don’t sell ‘grotesque.’”

Jinyoung clicked his tongue, watching with tired eyes as White Shirt glided past him to station himself behind the counter. “Everyone sells gross coffee. It’s the gross that makes it work.”

White Shirt only arched a fine brow as he bustled behind the counter, and Jinyoung found a certain familiarity in the clinking of metal on metal. He saw blue surgical gowns in his mind’s eye, blades and pads, crimson—

He opened his eyes to stare at White Shirt instead. Closing his eyes was easier—letting himself slip into a fitful sleep would have been easier—but he had some dignity left. He wasn’t about to fall asleep in the shop of the very same man into which he’d collided not minutes before.

Jinyoung looked around the shop, frowning at how everything seemed to be too . . . organised.

“No one else is here.”

White Shirt didn’t respond immediately. The ugly sound of beans being ground grated against Jinyoung’s ears. “I don’t usually get many people at this hour.”

“Seems like a wistful way to spend your resources. Lights, water, heating, with no one to help you turn a profit on them.”

White Shirt looked up at him with confused eyes. “What?”

“Am I wrong?”

“’A wistful way to spend my resources’?”

Jinyoung frowned. “No, I said wasteful.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and forcing his eyes to stay open. “What’s your name?”

“Are you even going to remember it?”

Jinyoung wondered if he could glare any harder without closing his eyes. “You’re annoying.”

White Shirt seemed genuinely surprised by his comment as he walked over with a small white cup in his hands. “Your coffee.”

“What kind of comeback is that? I’m not a coffee,” Jinyoung muttered.

“Y-O-U-R,” White Shirt said as he turned away. “ _Your coffee_.”

Jinyoung told himself that the flush in his cheeks was due to the warm drink in his hands and not mortification. He touched the small cup to his lips, taking in the scent that lived in the space between acrid and earthy, before knocking it back in one go. It felt like lava at the back of his throat, but it was that pain that kicked at his consciousness to keep him awake.

He started down at the cup, now empty, and sheepishly turned back to the barista—only to see him walking towards his table with another small cup in hand.

“Im Jaebeom. That’s my name. And I figured you needed another.”

“Is it poisoned?”

Jaebeom’s brows drew together, a softened confusion in the low lights of the café. “Why would I poison this one and not the one I gave you first?”

“To keep me on my toes?”

His response startled a laugh out of Jaebeom, a little too loud for the quiet atmosphere that had settled around them, but there was no denying the joy that filled his eyes. Jinyoung thought he fit in well with the sharp, warm aesthetic of the shop around them.

“How’s your head?”

Jinyoung opened his mouth to respond, but a shrill ringtone broke through the silence like a blunt knife. He winced, sipping gently at his espresso now. He would, begrudgingly, admit that it wasn’t anything close to grotesque. Maybe it _was_ poisoned.

He sighed. “If I die, I die.”

Jinyoung watched as Jaebeom answered the call, curious and bored and tired—though he could tell that he would be able to make it home in relative safety.

“I know I called you at ass o’clock, but— Can you _listen_?” Jaebeom’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. I needed the shipment of almond milk because the last one— Never mind, you don’t care. The supplier was only able to get a shipment to me _now_ , so I had to leave.” Jaebeom wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, something Jinyoung had only ever seen his mother try to do, as he cleaned the machine in front of him. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I know you love her.”

Whatever the person on the other end of the line said brought out that raucous laugh once more, though Jinyoung didn’t pay it any mind.

Jinyoung chose to focus instead on the rain sliding down the pane, shivered as he thought of how well it resembled the tears of the woman who had sat in the conference room hours prior. Her tears had seemed sadder, heavier in comparison to the carefree raindrops. Jinyoung wondered if she would ever be able to forget the feeling of scorching tears creeping towards her chin as she’d listened to what he had to say—or if she even knew they had fallen while her world shattered around her.

Jinyoung tightened his grip around the cup in his hand, wishing to the point of sickness that it was a more intoxicating drink that sat inside.

“The rain stopped.”

Jinyoung started, barely avoiding spilling his coffee as he peered up at Jaebeom.

“What?”

“The rain stopped. I figured that was your go-ahead to leave.”

“It . . . is.” Jinyoung rose, opening his wallet and pulling out a card.

Jaebeom stopped him with a hand in the air and an amused smile. “One: that’s a library card; two: it’s on the house.”

Jinyoung frowned down at his hand, and— Oh. A library card indeed. _What the fuck?_

“I called you a cab.”

Frown deepening, Jinyoung began to protest, but he already felt the caffeine begin to settle all too comfortably in his veins, a simmering buzz rather than the electricity he would need for the rest of the walk home.

“It— Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Jaebeom smiled. “Y-O-U-apostrophe-R-E.”

Jinyoung gave a small nod, walking outside and leaning against the wet brick. He grimaced, though it didn’t make much of a difference against his wet dress shirt. His journey home was a mess of blurred lights and lazy conversation with the driver—an effort that greatly tempted Jinyoung to throttle the man in driver’s seat—but soon enough, he was home, messily jamming his key into the lock and stumbling inside.

He didn’t think much of it when he dropped his clothes to the floor, the wet noise against the ground practically a lullaby the closer he got to his room. With the final _clank_ of his belt hitting the floor with his slacks and briefs, Jinyoung collapsed onto the bed with a small sigh and shiver.

_-^-_-^-_

Jinyoung was glad he lived alone, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to tear through his apartment with curses that would have made his mother reach for a bar of soap.

“Where the fuck _is it?”_ he hissed.

His laptop was nowhere to be seen, and Jinyoung was this close to ripping out every hair in his head as he looked for it. His clock read noon, and Jinyoung had no recollection of what happened between when he’d left the hospital and when he’d gotten home. The only thing he could remember from last night—this morning?—was how _soaked_ he’d been. Or perhaps that had been a memory jerked loose from the murky mess of his subconscious at the sight of his wet clothes. He hadn’t been too pleased to see the white watermarks left behind on the hardwood.

Jinyoung made a noise low in this throat. “Mark’s not gonna let me live this down, is he?”

Mark. He huffed as he remembered he was the same bastard that still held his umbrella captive—

The umbrella. Blue and brown, a warm scent, damning his life tight to hell as he walked right into White Shirt—

“Oh, _fuck_.”

_-^-_-^-_

The café was much prettier in the light of day, a warm haven amidst the busy, isolated life of the city outside. Jinyoung had to admit that, when not in a sleep-deprived stupor, he saw the appeal in the interior’s design. Now, with people both milling through it and seated in the cushioned seats, it seemed to breathe with a life that the outside world was lacking, a comfort that danced in the air along with the smell of cinnamon and coffee and sugar.

Jinyoung peered over a couple heads to see the man standing behind the counter—and deflated when he saw it wasn’t Jaebeom. He checked his watch and sighed; not only was it entirely possible that he was about to walk into work without his computer, he was _late_ as well.

As childish as it was, he was choosing to blame this entire disaster on Mark.

Jinyoung got in line, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he waited for the people before him to give their orders in a slow drawl. He prided himself on his ability to keep his temper on a tight leash, but this morning, self-control was a foreign concept.

Jinyoung was tugging uselessly at the band of his watch when someone called out to him.

“Can I help you?”

The man behind the counter with dark, almond eyes and rounded cheeks was looking at him expectantly; Jinyoung wasn’t entirely sure where to begin, now that he was here.

“I left my laptop here.”

Those eyes went alight, an infectious smile spreading across the barista’s face. If Jinyoung was in a better mood, he would have smiled too. “You’re the drunk guy that wandered in here last night.”

“ _Drunk_?” Jinyoung asked, indignant as he pretended his gut didn’t twist in disgust. “I wasn’t drunk.”

“You were acting like it, or so Jaebeom says.”

Jinyoung traced his wrist instead of screaming like a madman. “Do you know where my laptop is”—He glanced at the nametag—“Youngjae? Or should I stop wasting my time?”

A boisterous laugh rang out, putting the loudness of Jaebeom’s to complete shame. Youngjae grinned as he said something to his co-worker before turning back. “Do you want something to drink while you wait?”

“I have to _wait_?”

Youngjae’s smile remained in place, bright and charming, but the edge in his eyes told Jinyoung he was walking on thin ice. “Do you want a coffee?”

“A small Americano, please.”

Jinyoung was careful to hand over the right card this time, walking to the other counter as he kept his eyes on the door that led to the back. He looked at this watch again; he huffed when he saw it was closing in on one o’clock.

“Here.”

Jinyoung thought he knew the unwavering cadence of that voice. He was proven right when he saw Jaebeom standing there, now wearing a loose, black sweater and ripped jeans. The only thing Jinyoung cared about regarding his appearance, however, was the dark briefcase clutched in his hand—which was adorned with an absurd number of rings for someone whose profession was making drinks for the general public.

“Is it alive?”

“Looks like it. At the very least, it booted up. I tried airing out the bag so the leather wouldn’t get too damaged.”

“Oh.” Jinyoung didn’t know what to do, looking such kindness in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jinyoung looked around him, at the people talking amongst themselves and those who were on their way out. “If you’re this busy at this hour why not just open later?”

“What?”

The lines of Jaebeom’s face were softer now, the shape of his eyes almost feline and the thin bow of his lips fitting in well with the curve of his brows. Jinyoung swallowed, wondering if it was the lack of coffee that was making his head fuzzy. But no, he didn’t drink it enough for it to become a necessity, so that only left—

“This place was empty when I was—here. Last.” God, even thinking about what he must have said in his delirious state was mortifying.

“I wasn’t actually open.”

“What?”

Jaebeom tilted his head just so, brows jumping as he spoke. “I wasn’t open.”

“Then why did you _invite me in?”_

“You looked like you needed to sit down.”

Jinyoung felt irrational anger crawl up his stomach, into his throat and sit there, tainting his next words with a shameful venom. “I didn’t need a pity party.”

Jaebeom, much like last night, didn’t seem bothered by his attitude, settling for simply letting his brows drop and his back straighten. “Maybe not, but you needed a break and a caffeine boost so you couldn’t collapse onto the frickin’ ground.”

“’Frickin’’? How old are you, twelve?”

Jaebeom sighed, handing over the laptop. “I’m sorry if you’re upset at the prospect of being helped, man, but don’t be rude about it.”

“You—”

Feeling oddly scolded and small— _not for the first time_ , a voice in his head lilted—Jinyoung grabbed the briefcase and stormed out.

“Your coffee!”

Jinyoung wouldn’t have stayed in that café if there was a million dollars sitting at a table; not when an all-too familiar nausea was taking hold of his gut and refusing to let go.

_-^-_-^-_

“Well, you look like shit.”

Jinyoung didn’t care as he swore up a storm, sitting down next to Mark with as much aggression as he possibly could—which, admittedly, wasn’t a whole lot.

“Fuck you.”

Mark kept his amusement in check, but there was still a sparkle of enjoyment that slipped through the cracks. Jinyoung was just glad to have finally gotten a reaction out of someone. “What the hell happened?”

Jinyoung pulled his laptop out. “Nothing.”

“I mean it was clearly something.”

Calming down at the glitch-free start up screen, Jinyoung peered at Mark from under his lashes. “I gave someone my umbrella and you know what happened? I had to walk home in the fucking rain.”

“You know, for someone who works with children, you have an _awful_ mouth.”

“That would be the exhaustion, but thank you for noticing.”

Mark lost his joyous air then, slipping into the neutral calm he used when trying to coax answers out of someone; Jinyoung wasn’t sure he had to energy to weave around his defences as he usually would.

“You said you were gonna go home after the rain stopped.”

“Yeah, I know. I just . . . I had to get out. Leave. Do something. Home seemed like a good option.”

“I heard about your patient—”

“Cassidy.” Jinyoung forced himself to breathe, to keep his head clear as he stared at the opposite edge of the table. “Her name is— _was_ Cassidy.”

“Jinyoung . . . Why don’t you—”

“If you’re about to tell me to take the day off, can it.”

Mark didn’t flinch back, didn’t move, and Jinyoung felt himself inching closer and closer to the edge—before he dug his heels in, forced himself back from that ledge even as he cut his hands on the ground crawling backwards.

“We’re doctors, Mark. It happens.” He’d worked too hard on separating his heart from the rest of him, and one night spent running around in the damp city streets wasn’t about the pluck at the carefully threaded blanket of his control.

“Are you telling me you feel nothing?”

“I can’t afford anything else.”

Mark let it drop after that, giving him a brief outlining of his rounds for the rest of the day—a mundane, boring schedule that was much more grounding than Jinyoung was ever going to admit.

“Doctor Park.”

Jinyoung twisted his neck to look at the person who’d called for him. The chief of surgery, he noted with surprise, was walking over to him.

“Oh you’ve done it now.”

Jinyoung was still considering his laxative plan. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Doctor Jung was looking at him with her cool demeanour, but there was an anxiousness in her shoulders, a tightness in her hands that put him off. “There’s a patient in the VIP suite that’s requested your assistance on his case.”

“What patient?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly the _patient herself_ that requested you.”

“Okay,” Jinyoung said, “then who’s requesting me?”

_-^-_-^-_

Jackson-fucking-Wang.

Of course.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Damn, Jinyoung, hi to you too.”

Jinyoung felt his temper being rubbed down with sandpaper, raw and irritated the longer he spent out of the silent comfort of his apartment.

“Why am I here, Jackson?”

“Aimee. She’s, uh, she’s got this really bad gash on her elbow, and she’s not freaking out about it but I kinda am—”

“I can tell.”

Jackson sighed, bringing a hand up to his nose. Jinyoung was pointedly looking _away_ from the watch that hugged his wrist, because if he thought too much about the way it shone and the way he—

“We have several capable pediatricians.” Jinyoung crossed his arms. “You didn’t need to call me.”

“The cut got really red around the edges, Jinyoung; I think it got infected and Aimee . . . she really likes you. If she has to stay, I want you around her.”

Jinyoung thought it was unfair that, even in the unflattering lights of a hospital, Jackson was able to look like he just walked off a luxurious photoshoot, with his pinning gaze and the deep valleys of his cheeks.

Considering where he was at in his life, it was entirely likely.

“I can’t be involved in her case.”

“What?”

Jinyoung sighed, though its harshness was subdued by the genuine confusion in Jackson’s voice. “It’s unethical. I know her as more than a patient.”

“Can you—I don’t know—check in on her, sometimes? She doesn’t like hospitals, Jin.”

“ _Do not_ call me that,” Jinyoung snapped.

Jackson’s eyes—those kind, loving eyes—softened as he backtracked over his words. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s—It’s a habit.”

“Well break it,” Jinyoung said, without his normal bite. He looked through the blinds behind the window to see Aimee sitting there, pushing through the cleaning of her wound with a smile.

Jinyoung had a funny feeling where she’d gotten that attitude from.

“I’ll pop in to see when I have the time,” Jinyoung relented. “A cut like that can get ugly fast.”

“Jinyoung . . .” Jackson glowed with gratitude. Jinyoung forced himself to look away. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me—”

“If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have agreed to do it. Now go inside; I’m sure she’s wondering where her uncle is.”

Jackson brought a hand up to touch his shoulder, a motion that froze the breath right in Jinyoung’s lungs, but he dropped it in favour of walking through the door to greet his niece in sunny tones and bright smiles. Jinyoung fought to get his control back, to stuff down his want for a recognizable touch that had once been on his heart.

His entire world felt as though it were off balance, every aspect of it wrong, or mutated. He hoped that when this day was over, things would go back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy)
> 
> [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	2. Like a Hole in the Head

“Why are you stupid?”

Jackson looked up from his laptop, peering over the rim of his glasses to look at his pain-in-the-ass secretary. “Bam, have you never worked for someone before?”

“Of course I have.”

“So, you just choose to insult your bosses, then.”

“I choose to let my friends know when they’re being stupid.”

In BamBam’s defence, Jackson could see where his actions veered into the lane of idiocy. In _his own_ defence, however, he believed it was better to follow the whispers of your heart rather than the demands of your mind, and calling on Jinyoung to watch over Aimee fell into the category of the former.

BamBam’s expression told him he was very, _very_ wrong.

“Jinyoung is mature enough to realize that I asked for Aimee’s sake, not mine.”

The sharp smirk on BamBam’s face was that of a snake. Jackson feared what was going to leave those lips next. “And because you want to get back in his pants.”

“ _BamBam_ ,” Jackson warned. “You’re this close to getting fired.”

“You threaten me with that every day. It’s losing its touch.”

“BamBam . . .”

“Bye, boss.”

 _This_ , Jackson decided, _is why you never hire your friends._ The door to his office shut, and he couldn’t refocus on the document pulled up on his screen. He traced his finger along the band of his watch, feeling the memories woven into each scratch and smudge. He should probably get a new one, something cleaner and sleek with more metal, but . . . he couldn’t. Not yet. Besides, it still worked; switching to a new one would just be wasteful.

His phone lit up with a text from his brother.

**_How’s Aimee doing?_ **

**_She was fine when I left her a couple days ago.  
I’m gonna try and sneak away to see her today._ **

**_I’d appreciate it. I’m sure your work  
can wait._ **

Jackson didn’t bother responding. His brother was . . . _vocal_ about his opinions on the choices Jackson had made in his life, and he knew in his heart that there was no response, no matter how clever, that would convince his brother that he was content.

Passion was a force upon which he relied to fuel his daily life. Without that fire, without that insistent force that kept him upright and moving, he didn’t think he’d be able to live properly.

Except that if felt like he was being dragged through his life rather than walking a path of his own volition.

Jackson rubbed at his eyes uselessly, sighing as he looked back at the file he had pulled up. This could either be the best decision he would ever make, or the decision that would smear his name in disrespect for the foreseeable future. It was a gamble, yet Jackson felt it on his tongue and was enraptured with its taste; those risks were the things that sang like liquid gold in his veins, that kept his eyes sharp and his senses keen in a world that would love to see him numb. 

Still, there was the danger of leaning too far over the edge, of overestimating his abilities and falling into the depths, dragging all he cared for with him.

Maybe the Jackson of a few years ago could have put his work on hold for the sake of others. Now, it felt as though his heart were encased in chains of his own creation, crafted from his forgotten dreams and broken bones. He feared that, to step away from all of this, there would be no choice but to take a knife to his chest and carve out what remained there.

“It’s too fucking early for this.”

Jackson rose from his chair and left his office with a strange feeling swelling in his chest; it sat in his gut like a weighty rock and rose to the back of his throat in bitter vapours. The sleek walls of his building became sheets of ice, and he felt the chill bite into his skin despite all the layers he was wearing.

BamBam didn’t look up from his computer as he spoke. “You’re going to make it back in time for your meeting?”

Jackson had a “yes” at the ready, but his pace slowed as he approached his assistant’s desk, careful to keep his hands away from the cool surface. “I . . .”

“I’ll tell them you had something come up.”

“That’s not gonna cut it with these guys, Bam.”

BamBam sent him a look over the rim of his glasses. This wasn’t simply an old friend sat behind this desk; it was a quick wit and sharp intellect that helped him keep on task, and a pleasing smile to shoo big wallets away when they got too overbearing for Jackson to take on alone.

Jackson sighed. “Thanks, Bam.”

“Show me how thankful you are in my next paycheck.”

Jackson knew he was kidding, but for how much BamBam did for him, a small bonus would be the least he could do.

_-^-_-^-_

Jackson had never been too big a fan of the harshness of a hospital. The walls were too immaculate, the way in which staff carried themselves too rigid. Every inch of pale paint on the walls had absorbed a different story of pain, whether it was the wails of a broken loved one or the pained groans of someone carefully dancing with death. It was stifling, debilitating, and Jackson had always hated coming here, visiting Jinyoung or otherwise.

Moving through the halls was a fragile game, one that took all of his concentration. He kept his eyes ahead of him, ignored wheezing breaths and tired prayers, because this wasn’t his suffering anymore. He didn’t have the right to let himself dwell on pain that was not his to endure, especially when he could do exactly nothing to change any of it.

The children’s ward was both easier to walk through and impossibly more draining. The sound of cheerful giggles was discordant against the mechanical puffing of ventilators, and the sterile smell of the floor did nothing for the colourful decorations strewn about the walls and desks. Still keeping his gaze ahead, Jackson stood in front of Aimee’s room, thinking about what felt like nothing and everything. He stared at the air before him, frustrated and hurt at its shapelessness and lack of whiskered smile.

“Uncle!”

Jackson released a breath, walking into his niece’s room with a charming grin. “Is the princess being treated well in her new castle?”

She was practically swallowed in the sheer size of the bed, frailer with the crisp, white bandages wrapped around her arm. He inclined his head towards the doctor standing next to Aimee, though his gaze remained pinned to his niece.

“Isn’t that a lot more bandaging than she needed last time?”

“About that, Jackson.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the use of his name. _Why do I know that voice . . . ?_

“Mark.”

Mark’s lean face was filled out well by his welcoming smile. Laced in with his kind expression, though, was a certain rancor that dragged its nails down Jackson’s spine. He looked away before he let himself shiver.

“Her infection got worse before it got better,” Mark explained calmly. “The irritation around the cut grew—hence what you’re seeing with the bandages—and her temperature spiked in a small fever.”

Jackson’s stomach rocked. “What? Why didn’t you call me?”

“We tried. Several times. No one was answering.”

Last night . . . Jackson had been neck-deep in business proposals and brand deals and his phone—he’d turned off to save himself from any potential distractions. Then when he’d woken up the next morning there had been so many other calls and emails that he’d just . . . never seen them.

 _Aimee isn’t a_ distraction.

“The good news is that now is the ‘better’ part. Her temperature is back to normal and, if all has gone well, there should be a healthy, healing wound under that bandage.”

Jackson brushed a reassuring hand against Aimee’s ankle, only for her to squirm. “Uncle, I’m _fine_.”

He wished his nerves could be quelled by the words of his niece, but there was the familiar mantra in his head—one that he was doing his best to ignore for the time being. “I know, Aimee, but that doesn’t mean Uncle wasn’t scared for you.”

“Can I talk to you outside, Jackson?”

Jackson didn’t think Mark could sharpen the edge in his tone any further, but the tenor of his English didn’t have the animated lightness Jackson had gotten used to. Aimee pouted up at her uncle in adorable confusion. Jackson pressed a kiss to her forehead before following Mark out of the room.

“Give me one _really_ good reason I shouldn’t kick your ass.”

“You’d probably lose your job.”

Jackson realized that Mark’s statement had been rhetorical; his eyes slid into slits, his sharp teeth shining menacingly in the white lights as he took in a breath. Or maybe Jackson was just a little too scared for his own safety.

“I don’t need to remind you what happened with Jinyoung, do I?”

He should have expected this, really. Jackson flexed his jaw, his eyes skirting around as he strung a thought together.

“What the hell is this about?”

Mark stepped closer. Jackson thought he was losing it, but there was an undeniable threat in Mark’s eyes—the promise of something truly horrible if Jackson so much as thought of crossing the line.

That wouldn’t be a problem if Jackson knew where the line _was_.

“I get that the image of being some untouchable CEO is important to you. I mean, it’s what ruined your relationship.” Jackson’s hands clenched at his sides. Mark noticed Jackson’s shift in posture and only used it to push himself further into Jackson’s space. “So let me make one thing clear: If I see you playing with him again—if I see you even _look_ at him the wrong way—"

Serious eyes swept into Jackson’s peripheral. “Doctor Tuan, neuro needs you.”

Jinyoung was staring them just as a tired parent would their children, though that didn’t deter Mark from placing a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and telling him, in lilted Cantonese:

“Watch your step, Jiaer.”

Jackson stared at Mark’s back as he walked away. _This guy has seen_ way _too many American movies . . . ._

Words were lost to him as he took in Jinyoung’s appearance, coat clean and hair swept back as neatly as it had always been. Was he supposed to thank him for the intervention? Ask him how his day had gone? Check for updates on Aimee?

“Mark’s bite is just as bad as his bark.”

 _Oh, well that’s not very reassuring_.

Jackson didn’t get the opportunity to ask what that even meant; Jinyoung had walked inside with a soft, loving greeting to Aimee. He’d missed that voice—the one that was light and moved through the air with a cadence that rivaled the elegance of a violin. He missed watching the lines around his eyes deepen with joy and amusement, missed—

Well, it didn’t much matter now. Aimee was asleep on the bed, head hanging forward and small snores falling from her lips.

Jinyoung adjusted her bed so that she was lying down. “I’m sure Doctor Tuan told you everything you needed to know about Aimee’s situation.”

Jackson was a selfish, horrible, disgusting man, so he said, “No, he uh . . . He didn’t get the chance to tell me anything.”

He just wanted to hear more of that voice, even if the life and spark were gone—even if there was nothing musical about the way he weaved his words together. Jackson just wanted more.

_Greedy. Selfish. Typical._

Jinyoung fluffed up Aimee’s pillow, humming gently to himself, and— _oh._ That smile. Jackson had to look away, because his heart had been turned inside out and he was _certain_ there was some creature living inside of his chest, constricting his lungs.

Was this what it meant to look into a piece of his past that was no longer his? To taste the ambrosia of the heavens from which he’d so willingly fallen?

Jackson pulled at his ear, and with the movement, wiped any trace of his thoughts from his expression. He’d meant it when he said that this was a decision made entirely for Aimee’s benefit.

“Well her cut is healing nicely, now. She scared us a little last night with a small fever, but it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Jinyoung was smiling at Aimee as if she were his family, and Jackson let out a calming breath before he let his imagination get the better of him. This was simply what made Jinyoung a good doctor: his ability to make all those who came under his care feel welcomed and cared for.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Jackson. If it was serious, we would have made sure to get you here.”

“You _tried_. I didn’t _answer_.”

None of Jackson’s anger was directed at the man in front of him; no, it was an internalized, vivid anger that nearly blinded him.

“And I’m telling you that if Aimee was in trouble— _serious trouble_ —you would have found out.”

_How long are you going to drown yourself in your work, Jiaer? How long are you going to pretend this is what you want?_

Jackson’s short nails dug into his palm. He checked his watch, all too aware of how heavily Jinyoung’s gaze weighed on his wrist.

“Why are you still wearing that?”

“It’s a good watch, Jinyoung.” Jackson brushed a lock of hair away from Aimee’s face, glad to feel the regular warmth of her skin under his palm. Jinyoung stepped away from them, and took with him whatever normalcy had permeated the air.

“I have a meeting with a new client, so . . . I have to go.”

“I don’t remember asking.”

Jackson felt numbness fight against the shattering of his heart, and he clung to that breaking sensation like it was the only thing that kept him alive. “My phone is going to stay on from now on. I’m not . . . I’m not gonna miss another call.”

“Okay.”

Jackson bit on his lip. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t have the right to _disbelieve you_.”

“Jinyoung—”

“Visiting hours are open constantly for younger patients’ families,” Jinyoung said as he made for the door. “Don’t wait for me to be here to visit her.”

“I wouldn’t—”

He whirled on his heel. “I haven’t been able to predict your actions very well, _have I_?”

The fire in Jinyoung’s eyes was the only thing keeping him from blending into the bleak walls around them. Jackson hoped that there would always be something to stoke it. “Jinyoung . . .”

“ _What?”_

Aimee stirred under Jackson’s hand, a small groan working its way from her throat.

“Thank you,” he said, discarding what he’d planned on saying. “For looking after Aimee.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Don’t play dumb now.”

Jinyoung let his shoulders slump as he turned away. “You’re welcome.”

The room fell silent. Jackson absentmindedly carded his fingers through Aimee’s hair.

“Uncle?”

 _Fuck._ “Ah, Aimee.” Jackson crouched down, curling his lips in an apologetic smile as he kept petting her hair. “I have to leave now.”

“But you just got here.”

Aimee had always had a voice that matched the grandiose of her personality. To hear it so feeble and tired was disconcerting, and Jackson wished with everything he had that he could fix it.

“I know, sweet pea, but I have to meet someone.”

“Will you come back?”

Jackson nodded. “If your dad hasn’t come back to pick you up in a few hours I’ll be right here. Besides, I’m sure Doctor Park will keep you company.”

“I like Doctor Park,” Aimee whispered conspiratorially.

When Jackson smiled next, he thought he felt the skin around his mouth crumble. “Yeah. I like Doctor Park, too.”

_-^-_-^-_

Admittedly, Jackson hadn’t expected to be asked to meet his next potential client in a coffee shop. He liked the change of pace, though.

 _Canvas_ , the sign read. Teal cursive scrawled across what seemed to be, quite fittingly, a beige canvas. Jackson had heard a few things about this place, that it was surprisingly good food for the prices at which they were sold. Jackson had always been too busy to stop by this café wedged between so many other, identical buildings; he either had things delivered to his office or dragged himself home to cook a halfway-healthy meal.

He felt out of place, the harsh lines of his black suit clashing with the blue cheviot of the armchairs in the corners of the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Jackson felt himself stutter over his next breath; the man behind the counter was all kinds of beautiful. Half of his long, ebony hair was pulled back, a few pieces having fallen and framing his face perfectly. Golden sunlight painted the crests of his cheeks in a kind light, his deep, slanted eyes almost glowing in their hickory depths.

Jackson had half a mind to feel embarrassed as he got out exactly _no words_.

“Sorry, boss, that’s me.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man with the sharp eyes and upfront air, though he had no choice as someone walked into his space.

“I know Jaebeom’s nice to look at and all, but I was hoping I’d get some of your attention today, Mr. Wang.”

Jackson shook the intrusive thoughts loose— _Yup, definitely embarrassed_ —looking ahead who the person who’d called for his attention.

“Choi Youngjae?”

A brilliant grin lit up Youngjae’s face, sparkles shifting in his eyes as sunlight would in a river. “That’s me.”

Youngjae led him over to one of the more secluded tables, even though most of the store was empty enough for them to have sat anywhere. As Jackson relaxed into his seat, he knew what he’d done the moment he had agreed to come meet Youngjae; he was already sticking his neck out in pursuing a man who was a half-step above an amateur, and now he felt the cold press of the guillotine against his neck as he acknowledged that his wasn’t his turf. He held only a few cards, while Youngjae was smirking as he fiddled with the rest of the deck.

Jackson had to admit, he liked to play an old game in a new way.

“I still can’t really believe this is happening,” Youngjae confessed. “This kinda thing only really happens in stories, you know?”

“I like to think of myself as magical, if that helps.”

Youngjae laughed, full and happy. Jackson considered his lack of nerves a plus.

“I realize this might seem . . .”

“Sketchy?”

Jackson dipped his head in a nod. “But I make sure my label sees talent before it sees a marketable face. Your voice—and I’m not bullshitting you, here—is easily one of the best I’ve heard in a long time.”

The twist of Youngjae’s lips and the glint in his eyes reminded Jackson that he still had none of the power. “You’re not old enough to say that.”

“Partly true,” Jackson amended, “but you’re good. Even you have to agree with that.”

Youngjae’s confidence softened, and as he dipped his head, Jackson saw something akin to sheepishness blanket his features. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Jaebeom,” Youngjae called, “could you get something ready for Mr. Wang?”

“You can just call me Jackson, you know.”

Youngjae nodded with a hum, and Jackson was—confused. Very confused. Youngjae’s grin reached his eyes and his cheeks were soft, but his entire face had an insight to it that set Jackson’s stomach aflutter.

“What does this Mr. Wang want?”

Jackson heard someone approach, but for the sake of his composure, he only half-turned his head towards the sound. “Really, just Jackson is—”

“We’re not friends,” the man said, completely genuine. “I don’t know why I’d use your given name.”

Jackson was struck stupid. The words were— _harsh_ , yet the tone in which they were spoken was gentle and entirely transparent. Whoever this man was had no issue in speaking his mind, and Jackson felt his mind stumbling over itself trying to keep up.

“Jaebeom,” Youngjae sighed, exasperated, “just—Jackson, is there anything you want?”

Jackson decided to brave the storm and crane his neck up. Jaebeom seemed more real than he had when Jackson had walked in, but there was no denying how his skin seemed to have been born from the light filling the café.

“It— What do you recommend?”

“Jaebeom makes a really mean roast chicken sandwich,” Youngjae said.

“I’ll have that, then.”

Jaebeom nodded and, without much fanfare, went back behind the counter to put together Jackson’s order.

Jackson turned back to Youngjae, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. “So, let’s talk business?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [curious cat!](https://curiouscat.qa/ahgaslayy)
> 
> [twitter!](https://twitter.com/svnsmayday)


	3. Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK ;-;
> 
> Also . . . in light of youngjae signing to a new label, this chapter hits so different, but i wanna post this anyway 
> 
> Also also, this is STILL unbeta'd as fuck, so i'll come back to fix any typos later ;-;

_How . . . did I get to this point in my life?_

Jaebeom fiddled with the cloth in his hands. One of South Korea’s most reputable entertainment titans was sat in his café, smiling and laughing with _his_ employee, talking about _record deals_. He could understand, in an abstract sense, why Jackson Wang was as popular as he was; his voice was smooth as it ghosted along the top end of a baritone, the perfect mix of hearty and kind; the way he sunk back into the chair spoke more of an old friend rather than a man of immeasurable wealth. The longer Jaebeom watched him, the more clearly he could see that Wang focused on stretching himself thin to blend in, rather than containing himself in a faulty show of pride.

This didn’t change the fact that Jaebeom was unnerved by his presence, welcoming air be damned. It seemed that, in the past week, his café had acted as a magnet to many a peculiar stranger—namely the man with the rich chocolate hair and jarringly blunt eyes.

Jinyoung. No family name, no occupation—just a man worked to the bone, paint running off the canvas of his skin in melancholy-blues and heartbreak-blacks. Fascination had sunk its millions of talons into Jaebeom’s skin, making it impossible to forget the frazzled light in Jinyoung’s eyes, or the way his lips had quivered, leaning his head against the window.

Jinyoung, who had been worlds different and perfectly the same when he’d returned for his forgotten laptop the next day; who, despite the bags under his eyes, was keen and snippy and quietly appreciative.

 _Jinyoung, Jinyoung, Jinyoung_.

“Jaebeom, what the fuck are you doing?”

He passed off the shake of his head as a small sneeze, glad for the distraction from his thoughts. “You’ve gotten a little brave, Youngjae, talking to me like that.”

Youngjae only stared at him with a mildly concerned quirk to his brow, warily eyeing the sandwich Jaebeom was making. “That’s just . . . a _lot_ of lettuce for one sandwich.”

Jaebeom looked to the sandwich he was making, and, okay, maybe there was a _touch_ too much lettuce. Maybe there were times when he was distracted—and maybe that was why he’d been so easy on Jinyoung. There had been a few times, in the past, where he’d nearly wrapped up Norae in a face cloth instead of a diaper, or heated up a tetra pack of broth instead of formula. He knew what frazzled looked like. He knew what it _felt like_.

And so, perhaps, he knew he was just a little frazzled right now. In his defence . . .

Well, there wasn’t really a defence. He’d just gotten exactly two hours of sleep the night before.

He made quick work of the rest of the sandwich, adjusting his chicken-to-lettuce ratio before he brought over the order. The smile Jackson gave him was worth more than the intricately made watch worn snug around his wrist, though Jaebeom made himself turn away before he could feel much about it.

“You know,” he told Youngjae, “you’re still on the clock. I could dock your pay for just sitting here.”

Jackson straightened in his chair, brows bunched. “You said now was a good time.”

“Now’s the _best_ time,” Youngjae corrected, “not a good one.” He turned to Jaebeom. “And you would never.”

“Of course not,” Jaebeom assured, just a little pleased at how annoyed Youngjae sounded. “But you would set a miserable precedent for the rest of my employees.”

“Well then it is a _very_ good thing no one else is here.”

Jaebeom could only smile, full and genuine. “It is.”

Youngjae sighed, put upon in the same way Jaebeom often was when Norae asked him to start up _Baby Shark_ again. “Please, for the love of God, ignore him.”

Jackson offered Jaebeom another smile, but the latter was _much_ too busy scrubbing off a maybe-there stain from the top of his espresso machine. “Oh, I just think he cares about you.”

Youngjae grumbled something distasteful. When Jaebeom looked up, it wasn’t difficult to see the way Youngjae had softened. Adoration sparked with the hiss of a small match, somewhere in the corner of Jaebeom’s heart, and he put that extra boost of energy into collecting the stray cups left on the counter. Be nice to the customers all you want, he thought, but there wasn’t a force in hell that was gong to make them clean up after themselves.

A gasp cut through the molten silence. Jaebeom nearly dropped the cup he was holding. When he looked up, he saw that Youngjae was hunched over and glaring white-hot needles into his forehead. Peeking up over the counter, Jaebeom sought the source of his strife—

And noted the small tear in his pants.

“It would seem that your daughter has taken a pair of _unethically_ unsafe safety scissors to my work pants,” Youngjae said pleasantly. “How embarrassing.”

There was a red tinge to Youngjae’s ears, slowly creeping toward his cheeks. _You blew it for him_ , Jaebeom’s mind whispered. _He tried to do you a favour and look what happened._

Jackson was the first to laugh good-naturedly, bubbly enough to disrupt the growing guilt in Jaebeom’s gut. “You could leave a kid in a room full of nothing but bubble wrap and they’d _still_ find a way to wreck something. It doesn’t say anything bad about you, Youngjae.” Jackson took a small bite of his sandwich, eyes lighting up like high beams as he swallowed. “In fact, I think it’s rather telling of your personality that you’re willing to watch over your boss’s daughter, despite the, uh . . . wardrobe casualty.”

“Do you have a kid?” Jaebeom asked rather uselessly. What did it matter? This was the potential employer of his only good employee he was talking to.

This place was going to get a lot less bright without Youngjae. And while Jaebeom fully supported him, would be the first in line to buy his album when it was released to the public, there was the unavoidable feeling . . . losing a friend.

But there was no time for that. Certainly not in his life.

Jackson’s response was the perfect distraction. “Nope, no kid of my own. I’m not . . . the parental type.”

Jaebeom was more than a little off-put; with the way Jackson had talked about children’s recklessness, Jaebeom wouldn’t have doubted that he had his own. Then again, perhaps it was just a tidbit of wisdom everyone knew. Kids were messy. Parents and non-parents alike knew that.

Not that it mattered. Jackson Wang was poaching Youngjae right under his nose, and Jaebeom was allowed to be petty about that for years.

Jaebeom’s hands froze in their practiced motions of cleaning the counter. Was it poaching if you knew about it?

He pulled his phone out, knowing his mother would yell at him for holding such a filthy thing in a space to make food, and—yup, poaching was usually illicit. He couldn’t even call this poaching, and that was enough food for thought to carry him through to the end of Youngjae’s interview.

Youngjae was out the door in a heartbeat, no doubt on the way to his second job, giving an eloquent farewell to Jackson and a crass “BYE!” to Jaebeom. Somehow, Jaebeom was endeared all the same.

Riding the wave of that endearment, he turned to Jackson. “Are you toying with him?”

Though he was clearly shocked, Jackson’s movements were fluid as he rose from his seat. “Pardon me?”

Jaebeom had long since curbed his temper—a truly terrible thing that had always been red and rubbed raw—but there was something about Jackson that had wisps of it returning. “Youngjae always belts out when he thinks I’ve gone home for the day. This place closes to the sound of him singing his heart out. It opens to that amazing voice of his. You, _Jackson Wang_ , ‘entertainment titan and self-made CEO,’ are not going to dangle his dreams in front of him just to take them away.”

Like a hand wiping away condensation from a mirror, Jaebeom saw a flare go up behind Jackson’s eyes. “No one’s dreams, no matter the craziness or the normalness, should be used like that. Youngjae is no different. He—” Jackson slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I’m in awe of him. And because of how . . . _unusual_ the creation of my label is, I like to think the way I sign artists should be just as unusual.” A hand came out to gesture at the café. “If that happens to be meeting him at his place of work to see what he looks like when he’s most comfortable, so be it.”

He thought that an angry Jackson Wang would be more . . . temperamental, but there was only a steady flame where Jaebeom had expected fireworks.

“I’m sorry,” he said neutrally.

Jackson hitched up his shoulders in a shrug. “‘Defensive dad who just wants the best for his friend’ falls low on the list of shitty people I’ve met.”

The more he heard Jackson speak, the clearer it was that the curl to his enunciation wasn’t intentional. Each time Jaebeom thought he could place the accent, Jackson’s intonation swerved to the side, some parts spoken in perfect Korean and others undeniably affected.

“Can you tell me if he has a genuine future with you?”

Jackson’s brows leapt up, though he had no response. It was the silence that made Jaebeom barrel on, eager to fill it. “It’s just—he deserves it. This. Deserves the world. It— I don’t know. I know you don’t have to do anything for him, or tell me anything, but, just—” Jaebeom swallowed roughly and quickly enough for his throat to ache in protest. “Are you going to sign him?”

Jackson quirked his head, jarringly charming against the perfection of his suit. “How about this: I’m making the decision to sign or pass on him in one week. If I sign him, I’ll come back here and celebrate with one of those ridiculously sweet drinks you have on that chalkboard above you. If not . . .” Jackson’s eyes dimmed. “I imagine you’ll be a little busy consoling your friend.”

Jaebeom felt his heart writhe under duress and confusion and— _something else_. “You said you wouldn’t taunt him with his dreams.”

Jackson readied himself to leave. “And I won’t. But I still have a business to run.” Only when he got to the door did he stop to say, “He’s lucky, you know. To have you. That daughter of yours is going to grow up to be an amazing person.”

Jaebeom felt his tongue lay dormant in his mouth, only spurred into action by the image of Jackson poised stylishly in his doorway. “If she doesn’t turn my wardrobe to shreds first.”

The laugh Jackson let out was hearty and sharp, though not unpleasantly so; it was the same feeling he got when he pressed his thumb to a blade to test its sharpness, the pull in his muscles when he went for that extra rep in his makeshift home gym.

 _Slow your roll, Im Jaebeom_ , said a voice in his head, very much like his mother’s. _This is going to get you nowhere_.

The jingle of the door closing was enough to remind him of just that. Now that Youngjae was at less of a risk of getting his heart broken, Jaebeom could head home. The very thought of getting Norae into his arms was enough to make him clean even faster; to flip the sign to ‘CLOSED’ with a flick and check the locked door behind him with a sturdier hand.

_-^-_-^-_

“ _Papa!”_

Instantly Jaebeom’s fatigue left him. “Hello, my little songbird.”

Norae toddled over to him with hands outstretched. She was perhaps a little too old to be picked up and swung around by her father, but Jaebeom was a weak, _weak_ man. He would pluck a star out of the sky for his little girl if she so much as hinted at wanting one.

“You’re a little sadistic, making me watch over your kid when that’s what I do all day.”

Jaebeom slumped after Norae settled into his arms. “I’m sorry, ’Gyeom. I needed to rush into the store.”

Yugyeom hummed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “The big bad interviewer that came to take away your employee. How’d it go?”

“Youngjae is very personable.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“I’ll tell you how I feel when I’m writing him his last paycheck.”

Yugyeom’s laugh reminded him of the vanilla lattes on his menu—bracingly sweet at first, only for the stronger, more bitter notes to settle in later. “You know,” he started in a hesitant voice, which usually meant bad things for Jaebeom, “you could have saved us both a lot of trouble if you’d just brought her to the hospital.”

Jaebeom made sure he didn’t tighten his grip on Norae, pouring every ounce of his displeasure into his eyes. “If you have a problem coming over at the drop of a hat, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else, next time. But I’m not taking her back there, even for the daycare.” Seeing the small bout of guilt in Yugyeom’s eyes, he sighed. “Besides, shouldn’t you avoid doing things that might tick off your supervisors? I don’t think you’re allowed to just bring in your friend’s kid without consequence.”

“I would’a tried for your sake,” Yugyeom muttered, much less wounded than he’d been a moment ago.

“And I love you for that,” Jaebeom replied honestly, “but this is about more than just me.”

“Oh, come _on_ , why’d you drop the L-bomb!”

Jaebeom let himself laugh at Yugyoem’s whiney voice, finally setting down Norae so she could bid Yugyeom goodbye. “I love you, Yugyeom,” he sang.

“Stop it!”

Norae joined in, less careful in her pitch but no less enthusiastic. “Gyeomie!” she cheered. “We love you, we love you, we love you!”

Yugyeom huffed, grin settling onto his lips as he ruffled his hair. “Ah, you two are impossible. I love you too. Now,” he sighed, “if you don’t mind, I have to get going before Dr. Park decides he’s finally going to get me fired.”

“He’s really hellbent on your destruction, huh?”

“I mean . . .” Yugyeom’s shoulders slumped. “A little. He just cares about the kids. And doesn’t care for people that are late.” He seemed to deliberate that for a second as he slung his coat over his arm. “Which is odd, seeing as he was _real_ late a few days ago.”

Even Norae seemed surprised at that as she made a small grumbling noise; in all the stories of the cold-eyed, tender-hearted Dr. Park, he never tolerated tardiness, or any form of shenanigans, for that matter.

“Well, don’t get fired.”

“Thanks,” Yugyeom said tonelessly, “your advice is invaluable.”

“Glad I could help.”

A few more words were exchanged before Yugyeom shut the front door behind him with a wave. In the gap between his departure and Norae’s humming was a dreadful silence wherein Jaebeom realized how _quiet_ it was, sometimes. Very rarely, seeing as his little girl was boisterous and confident, but there were a few moments that Jaebeom was reminded of how painfully empty this place could become.

Silence had been everything to him, once; now it was just a reminder of everything he had lost.

 _You’re fine,_ he told himself as he headed to the kitchen. _You have a job, and a daughter, and a few friends that would turn over buildings for you, and so you’re fine._

He didn’t feel very fine.

“Papa.”

Jaebeom shook himself loose, peering down at Norae with as much concentration as she used to look up at him. “Yes, songbird?”

As always, she brightened at the pet name. “Why does Dr. Park hate Gyeomie?”

“I don’t think he hates him,” Jaebeom said carefully. “It’s just that . . . some people are unable to fully verbalize what they mean. All of Yugyeom’s stories are about Dr. Park being grumpy and mean, but none of them are about his being a bad doctor.”

“So . . . Dr. Park is a good doctor and a bad person?”

Jaebeom’s laugh leapt from his throat. “I couldn’t tell you that, songbird. I don’t know Dr. Park, and every story has three sides.”

“Why three?”

He sat down then to allow Norae to plop herself into his lap. He cherished moments like this, telling himself that he was not a cage for her, but a temporary solace. _You’re doing this right_ , he shouted at himself. _You’re not a bad father_. “Humans are very emotional people,” he started. “Our pasts and our recent memories affect how we live. That means that, a lot of the time, people are unable to tell the story as it actually happened. So, there’s your side of the story, another person’s side, and the truth. That last one is a little harder to pin down than the other two.”

“So does that mean the doctors didn’t really kill Mama?”

Jaebeom’s heart broke along its scars and fissures for the millionth time that month. “Norae . . .”

How was he supposed to tell her? He prided himself on being honest with his little girl more than most parents, but he was lost on how to tell her that it was negligence and hubris that had taken her mother from her.

“It’s complicated,” he said, even if he didn’t want to, “and even I’m not sure what the truth is. I promise, though, that when I figure it all out, I’ll share it with you, okay?”

“M’kay,” Norae murmured. “Can I go do my homework now?”

Jaebeom jerked back. “You’re five. You have _homework?”_

“I mean, it’s not _really_ homework, but Ms. Seo said that she wants us to do the work.”

 _How responsible,_ he thought. Then, a little belated, _Oh. I did that, didn’t I?_

It was supposed to be a point of pride, but all Jaebeom could focus on was the silence that fell over him as Norae retreated to her room. What was it that people always said? “Misery loves company”?

Jaebeom had taken several rainchecks on his dates with misery. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was meant to put them off.


	4. Burn Baby Burn

Jinyoung had long since done away with his childish instincts. At least, such was the case when he wasn’t at the diner with Mark after a day-long shift. He prided himself on his compartmentalization, his calm demeanour, his problem-solving.

That all flew out the fucking window in the face of Ryan Seo.

Mark—Jinyoung’s lanky, steady anchor that kept him from lighting the hospital on fire—was called away for a consultation. He was _three floors away_ , and Jinyoung, in all his sleep-deprived glory, was about a moment away from socking Seo in the jaw.

Seo was in the room during Jinyoung’s bi-hourly visit to Aimee. He made sure to see her once every couple hours, when he was able, because they’d had little luck getting her father to come sign her release forms; Jackson was only ever able to stay with her in occasional, half-hour intervals. She had been there for a week now, and Jinyoung couldn’t stomach the thought of her spending those whole seven days alone. If he was finding non-existent problems with this patient and making a bigger deal out of them to ensure Aimee stayed put, then that was his business. He and Jackson may have gone their separate ways, but it didn’t feel right to punish others—to punish _a child_ —for something like a pair of adults’ pathetic relationship.

 _Relationship_. He couldn’t even call it that anymore. Maybe if he filled up an IV bag with a few shots of espresso he’d have the energy to deal with all his bullshit.

His problems didn’t end there, because Ryan Seo had meandered right into Aimee’s room to ask about her stay at the hospital.

“Has Dr. Jinyoung been treating you well?”

Aimee beamed, nodding vigorously. “Dr. Park is so so nice to me! And he makes Uncle smile, too!”

Jinyoung’s heart swelled, remembering in perfect detail how clammy her skin had been just last week. She’d bounced back so quickly. He wondered if it was possible for her to have learned that from Jackson.

Jinyoung was quick to shove any thoughts of him into the dark corner in which they belonged.

“Oh, so he knows someone in your family?”

His heart deflated, because there was a bastard in the room, and for once, his name was not Park Jinyoung.

“Aimee, did you know that doctors can’t treat their friends?” Seo’s tone was sweet in the way that swallowing a tablespoon of corn syrup was. _Don’t hit him, don’t hit him,_ don’t hit him _—_ “He could get into big trouble of someone finds out he’s your doctor.”

Aimee—sweet, blessedly intelligent Aimee—was not one to be swindled. “Dr. Park just talks to me!” she said in her cheery voice. “Dr. Tuan is my _doctor_ -doctor.”

 _I’m getting this kid whatever she wants from the cafeteria_. _Hell, I’ll run down to the bakery to get her whatever cakes her heart desires._

“Dr. Park,” Seo said, “may I have a word?”

“As far as I’m concerned you’ve had too many already,” Jinyoung replied, “ _but all right._ ”

He waved goodbye to Aimee, who cupped her hands around her mouth and mouthed “Good luck!” as clearly as she could. It was enough to bolster him as he stared down the walking shit-pile in a white coat.

“Usually,” Jinyoung started as he closed the door behind him, “I’m glad to see my former colleagues return. You, though, are a _striking_ exception to that rule.”

Seo rolled his eyes, which left Jinyoung wondering just how old he was. “Don’t get all preachy with me.”

“You’re the one who was too money-hungry to stay.”

He considered paging Mark, but immediately decided against it. He was out there, doing his job, and Jinyoung wouldn’t get a whole lot from his presence.

Still. It would have been something, at least.

“I don’t do charity work.”

 _Nope, definitely should have paged Mark_. “This isn’t _charity!”_ Jinyoung spat, barely tampering down his volume before he ticked off one of his supervisors. “Listen here, you miserable bag of _shit_. I don’t care where you go, and I don’t care how you spend your miserable days on this planet, but I swear to you if you come in here to bother me, Aimee, or any of my patients again, _I_ will sue you into the ground for malpractice.”

That _finally_ got an unpleasant reaction out of Seo, whose fists tightened at his sides like they were trying to crack bone. Good. “I followed the standard of care.”

“Maybe,” Jinyoung said, calm enough that the ache in his chest grew as it was refused exit, “but the second I find proof that you neglected your duties as a practitioner of medicine, I will personally see to it that you lose your license.”

Seo was much too smug as he leaned against the desk behind him, and the nurse that sat behind it looked ready to stick a pen into his ass for it. “That boss you fucked really _has_ given you a sense of superiority.”

Indignation rose up like a beast in his chest, head going fuzzy as he deliberated every scathing insult he could spew to pick apart this man’s ego.

“That boss he _dated_ wasn’t good enough a man for him.”

For a second, Jinyoung thought the words were his—that, by some miracle, he’d managed to get out a coherent response.

But his voice had never been that raspy.

Jinyoung shuddered as he expelled the rage from his body, focusing on the dulled chorus of heart monitors around him. He was at work. Despite his cool attitude, he loved what he did. He wouldn’t let _Ryan Seo_ ruin that for him.

Jackson was something of a vision, all sharp angles from his chilled glare to the line of his tie. He stopped just short of Jinyoung and Seo, the latter of which looking like a child who’d been forced to share the block tower at playtime. _He was allowed to practice medicine_ , Jinyoung thought in a flash of horror. _How many Ryan Seos are there in the world?_

Too many. He knew that without much consideration.

The night Ryan Seo stormed out of the hospital for good was one the staff would remember for years. His brain wanted to sub in the sunny sky for miserable rainfall to match the mood of the ER that day, but that would not be true. In fact, the ER had been filled to the brim of patients suffering a heatstroke from the midday sun.

 _Right_ , Jinyoung reminded himself, _it was sunny, and it was the volume of patients that sent him off_.

What a miserable bastard.

“Jinyoung.”

He looked up at the call of his name, happy to see someone other than Seo talking to him. _Jackson_. Not necessarily a welcome presence, but certainly better than the alternative. “Are you here to see Aimee?”

“I mean, yeah, but—”

“Then go see her. I think she’s starting to go a little stir-crazy.”

Jackson was reluctant—and in all fairness, Jinyoung didn’t fully want him to go—but Aimee was more important, and Jinyoung was an adult who was more than capable of handling his life’s drama.

Which was a load of shit, but it was all he had.

“Listen, Seo,” Jinyoung said as Jackson closed the door behind him, “I don’t understand why you’re back, and I sure as hell don’t care to know. I don’t ever want to see you walk the halls of this hospital again. Not after the stunt you pulled.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Seo drew out, leaving the sound hanging in the air like a fruit rotting on the branch. “I see.”

“What?” Jinyoung snapped, because there was nothing he liked less than ambiguity.

But Seo was already departing, waving over his shoulder with a nauseating grin stuck to his lips. Jinyoung was _going_ to kill him.

He walked into Aimee’s room instead, because old habits were hard to kick, and Jackson Wang . . . was his worst habit.

“That the guy that got fired?”

“ _Sabbatical_ ,” Jinyoung said through his teeth. “ _Then_ he fucking _left_.”

“Oi,” Jackson hissed. “Watch your mouth.”

Aimee was wholly distracted with the book in her hands—surely a gift from Jackson—so it was unlikely she’d even heard him. What was it his mother had always said? Big jugs, little ears?

“Little jugs, big ears,” he recalled. “Right. I’m . . . sorry, Jacks.”

 _Danger, danger, danger!_ _What part of using nicknames would indicate that you want nothing to do with him!?_

“He’s that guy you wanted to sue, isn’t he?”

“And what _about it_ , Jackson?”

They’d been down this path before. Jinyoung remembered each step they’d taken, and how they’d created a fork in their shared road all on their own.

But Jackson was smart, like his niece, and knew when to shut his mouth. “Nothing, ‘Nyoungie. Absolutely nothing.”

Well. Maybe he didn’t know how to shut his mouth _perfectly_. Jinyoung would make do. “Don’t . . .”

 _Don’t call me that_. They weren’t difficult words to say. Four in total, one syllable each. _So say them_.

Jinyoung only leaned against the doorjamb. Aimee looked up from her book, eyes big and much too understanding for Jinyoung’s already-low comfort levels. “Can I go for a walk? Yugyeomie promised me he’d let me pick a song for him to perform for the other kids.” Jinyoung clicked his tongue. _That little shit_. “And,” Aimee continued, “this bed isn’t very comfy.”

He and Jackson spoke at the same time, each of them in the affirmative. Jinyoung froze, eyes wide as Aimee skipped out the door. Which one of them would have held more authority, if they’d contradicted? Blood, or medicine? Family or law?

Jinyoung would be an idiot if he didn’t think all those things were in some way tied to each other.

“I’m going to have to have to discharge her soon.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already.”

Jinyoung hung his head. “Come on, Jackson. Where would she go?”

“What do you mean, _where would she go?”_ Jackson crossed his arms and legs, shut off from everything and anything. “With me.”

“Jackson. _Come on_.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about this?”

“I don’t have enough hands to count the number of times you’ve let yourself get drowned in work.” Jinyoung held up a hand as Jackson’s mouth opened. “And that’s completely fine. You love your job. That’s easy to see. Where my problem lies is in your inability to _realize it_.”

Oh, he’d been too harsh. Jackson’s face scrunched up for just a second before it was schooled into something only distantly hurt, but Jinyoung had become a master of all things Jackson in a very short time.

 _You’re a doctor_ , he told himself, _yet you seem to hurt more people than you heal._

“Jackson,” he tried again, much more gently this time around, “you know how long it took us to reach you that first night.”

A slump of the shoulders. Acknowledgement. They hadn’t reached him at all.

Jinyoung sighed. “This room is almost always empty. If you’re okay to keep fronting the cost of the VIP suite, then I’ll keep bullshitting her papers to make her stay reasonable. But Jackson . . . I can’t do it forever.” He braced himself. “When is your brother coming back?”

Jackson fiddled with his watch. Something he didn’t want to say, felt he should, didn’t know how to. “I don’t know.”

And because Jinyoung knew Jackson as well as he did, he knew that that was most, if not all, of the truth. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Jackson agreed. “ _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad that this chapter is so much shorter than the others but! the story is about to kick off, and i tend to keep them shorter for the sake of pace. Hope they're still enjoyable ;-;


	5. Scattered on the Wind

Humans were like blown glass in that they could stretch beyond what seemed reasonable. Complete this task, talk to so-and-so about that, go there and tell me what you see. Stay, go, forget, remember, live, die. Do the impossible, cherish the possible.

But, like glass, humans had a breaking point.

Jaebeom was reaching his.

To some it may have looked like Jaebeom was merely a helicopter parent. He loved to watch over Norae and ensure that she was safe, unthreatened. But Jaebeom held little regard for what she drew or how often she was willing to open up to him.

His fears were a little more rudimentary.

“Papa,” Norae said from her car seat, “you know I could take the bus, right?”

Place her in the middle. Check the buckles once. “I do.” Twice.

“And you know that I would be okay, right?” Three times.

“I do.” One last glance. Maybe another, because his stomach was in a multitude of swollen knots.

“So why are you driving me?”

She was in the middle of a minivan. Rear-ended, she would be fine. Head-on collision, she would be fine. Any dings from the left or right, she’d live, but not without risk. Sudden stop, the car seat would protect her. He’d been stingy with dolling out hours in the months before buying it to save money he would need, but the car seat was something to combat the writhing anxiety in his heart that would never again sleep again.

Such was the price of learning love and losing it within a year.

“Because I love you,” he replied, honest and yet not, “and I want to make sure you get there safely.”

“Are you going to pick me up too?”

Oh how he would have liked to. “Sorry, songbird, but I need to stay later at the store.”

Her reaction was not one he’d been prepared for; she beamed up at him, jumping up and down in her seat like she’d learned she was finally getting that puppy she’d asked for. “Really? Thank you, Papa! Gusae was telling me about this new . . .”

And Jaebeom tired to pay attention—with any luck, his subconscious would kick in and log the information for him—but he was preoccupied with her _excitement_. She didn’t want him to pick her up.

He was suffocating his daughter.

“Papa? Are you okay?”

She was still so small. She didn’t need to learn the ins and outs of his grief. Not yet, and hopefully never. Before he stepped away, he kissed her forehead. “I love you, songbird.” _And I hope you never learn loss like I have. Not even when you lose me._

Her gaze was too heavy on the back of his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

_-^-_-^-_

Sometimes there weren’t enough menial tasks in the world to stop one’s incoming thoughts. With this struggle, Jaebeom was intimately familiar. Busy thoughts were often _accompanied_ by busy hands, not silenced. It was not a replacement they sought, but rather a buffer. Sometimes to soften the blow of unfiltered imagination.

This was one of those times.

He couldn’t help but wonder what he was setting out to teach Norae. _Be afraid of life, take too many precautions, breathe every breath fearing it’s your last._ But there was some truth in all of those statements. Life was big, and it didn’t care about anyone. It just barrelled on, and it was up to you to keep up or become life’s chewed-up afterthought.

Life hadn’t care about _her_ either.

 _Time heals all wounds._ That was what people said about situations like his. _You won’t hurt forever. There will come a day where thinking of her doesn’t bring you pain_.

If that were true, which he vehemently doubts, then there was not enough time in his lifespan to let this wound scab over. He would always regret not worrying more, not answering the phone at the first ring instead of the fourth, not pressing hard enough on the gas.

Not getting there soon enough.

He jolted when he dropped the espresso cup in his hands, though he wasn’t surprised. It was inevitable that he’d drop something with how distracted he was. He bent down to pick up the bigger shards, mind already beginning to descend back into its dreadful musings.

“I hope you have more of those kicking around.”

Knocking his skull against the counter above him was not part of the plan. Vaguely annoyed and ready to turn in for the day, Jaebeom rose from his crouch to look at who had walked through the door.

“You look better when you’re not sopping or angry.”

Jinyoung’s smile was sharp, not unlike the broken cup Jaebeom currently held in his hands. “Good to know I don’t look as pissed off as I feel.” Before Jaebeom could respond to _that_ , Jinyoung was strolling over with his eyes pinned to the menu board above the counter. “You write that yourself?”

“I make Youngjae do it, sometimes.”

Jinyoung’s hum was noncommittal at best. “Are you open? Officially, I mean.”

 _No._ _I own this place and I say we’re fucking closed._ “Yeah.”

Dammit.

“Two almond croissants, one Angel’s Symphony cake, one black tea, and an almond latte, two shots.”

Jaebeom had been in customer service for years at this point, but he couldn’t stop himself from giving Jinyoung a once-over. Luckily it was relatively well received. “What,” Jinyoung said, voice tight with restrained laughter, “you won’t take my money if it’s all for me?”

“I’ll take your money unprovoked.”

It was such an asinine thing to say, and Jaebeom knew it the second the words left his mouth, but Jinyoung’s eyes crinkled at the edges and his voice floated up in something like a laugh, so _how bad could it have been?_ “I’ll have to keep an eye on my wallet, then.”

 _What the hell is this? What the_ hell _is this?_

Jaebeom decided he would say nothing else in the time it took to make the order. Jinyoung didn’t mind, folding his coat over his arm and standing at the counter with his arms crossed. He looked like a statue an ancient artist would carve to convey some virtue or another, but Jaebeom wasn’t sure which it would be. Patience? Stoicism? Silence? They all had their place in the world, yet none of them quiet fit the stiffness in Jinyoung’s shoulders or the lines at his mouth.

 _Loneliness_. Hardly a virtue, but present in the world regardless.

Jaebeom busied his hands with heating up the croissants and pretended his world wasn’t filled to the brim with it. _You can’t think too hard if your body is busy_. _You can stretch farther. You can do more._

Eventually, Jaebeom thought, he would have to stop lying to himself.

“Here’re your drinks, and the cake.”

Jinyoung nodded politely with a low hum, though said nothing. It didn’t take long after that to assemble the rest of the order; Jaebeom pulled out the croissants from the small oven and slid them into a small bag, gently laying down the slice of cake in a carton with _Canvas_ scribbled across the top. Jinyoung took these, too, with a small nod and a hum, making for the doors without remembering to put his coat back on. Jaebeom thought to tell him that, but was abruptly cut off by a grating beep.

Jaebeom immediately pulled out his phone. The screen was blank, with not a single notification on the screen when he clicked the power button.

“ _Shit_.”

The front door was thrown open hard enough for something to creak. Jaebeom braced himself against the wall of cold air that greeted him as a result.

“All that talk of giving me his money,” he mused, “and I don’t even get a penny.”

Frankly, he didn’t have the energy to worry about a twenty-dollar order walking out the door. Sure, he would beat himself up when morning came and he was short twenty bucks in revenue, but for now . . . he needed a break. To shut down for a second, plan a reboot, stop feeling like he was a second away from shattering. He had been molten and glowing not a second ago, content to bend this way and that for the sake of companionship and the job he loved.

But he had cooled down, now, faced with the chilly air that beckoned him from outside his shop.

He was going to break.

He went to the back room and slid between the crates of flour and coffee beans. He couldn’t tell if he was protected or contained; if he would safely be brought back to room temperature or if the shards of his person were going to be buffered by the bags and boxes around him.

Hoping for yet another distraction, Jaebeom pulled out his phone, cocking his head when he saw the recommended article at the top of his screen.

_School Bus Collides with Siderail, Injuries Undetermined._

Slowly, hands losing feeling and mind reduced to static, Jaebeom’s eyes slid up to the top of his lockscreen. 3:09.

Norae got out of school at 3:00.

“No,” he whispered. It was all he could force himself to say. _No no no no no_.

Unlocking his phone was a monumental task because of his shakiness—because of how it felt like he was boneless yet made of wooden planks; once he did, he dialed the number of the school.

_We’re sorry, but we are unable to take your call at this time. Please call us again later, and we will be glad to take your call._

He tried again.

_We’re sorry, but we are unable to take your call at this time—_

Again.

_We’re, sorry, but—_

“ _DAMMIT!”_

_We’re sorry—_

He was near-delirious when his phone began to buzz with an incoming call. He didn’t pay the name any mind before he was answering with a desperate “Hello?”

“Is this Im Jaebeom?”

 _No, it’s not—not if you’re going to say what I think you’re going to say_. Because Jaebeom heard the beeping. He heard the distant shouting. Around the searing ache in his throat, he said, “Yes.”

He’d been too close to the tipping point. Stretched too thin, shocked too harshly—

“Your daughter, Im Norae, has been in an accident—”

—and so Jaebeom broke.


	6. Chipped China

No one wanted to think that their loved one was being saved by another human being. Human beings weren’t reliable. They were emotional, prone to mistakes, vulnerable. Flawed.

No one wanted a human for a doctor.

Jinyoung’s hands no longer shook; if he had to hold a shard of glass as thin as string and refrain from breaking it, he could stand for hours without issue. He rarely panicked; anxiousness bred error, and error bred pain. He knew when to back down; acquiescence sometimes saved a life.

No one wanted a human for a doctor, and so Jinyoung was not human.

Perhaps there was a certain edge of savagery to his line of work, taking blades and saws to the frail bodies of children. He’d heard it before: _I can barely get a band-aid when I burn myself on the stove, and you’re a_ surgeon _? For little kids, too? How are you not terrified they’ll break? They’re so . . ._ small _._

She’d been an old flame from college. Jinyoung had been decently excited to see her, right up until they got to talking about their paths after graduation. _I help kids_ , he’d wanted to say. _How is that not good enough for you?_

But she had not been entirely wrong. You had to be a different kind of numb to stare at a child’s prone body and not send yourself into a frenzy thinking about the years of potential you might taint, or even destroy.

 _I’m a good doctor_ , he reminded himself.

Which rightfully implied he was a terrible person.

Before him was a little girl named Im Norae. Like all those who’d been on Jinyoung’s table, she seemed heartbreakingly small. It didn’t matter what they were like when they ran around and played with their parents or friends; here, they were all fragile and brushing noses with death. It was Jinyoung’s job to place a spacer between them and tell death to fuck right off for at least another day.

He was having a harder time than usual.

“Put her on bypass,” he told the nurse, who moved with professional swiftness at the order. “We have a slim window to get that heart and I don’t want to waste a millisecond of that time.”

She needed a new heart.

 _God-fucking-dammit_.

The doors behind him slid open. “Dr. Park,” said the nurse who usually worked the desk, “the father is demanding to speak with you.”

“Have you given him the usual speech?” Jinyoung asked, even though he was already stripping himself of his surgical gown; nothing to be done until the heart arrived.

“I’ve done my best, Dr. Park, but he, um . . . He’s a little more difficult than the rest.”

Jinyoung found that hard to believe; there were parents who raged at him for killing their children, one who’d nearly cracked his nose for suggesting they amputate the little athlete in front of him. Jinyoung was no stranger to angry parents, because the closer he got to them, the more visible his cracks became, and suddenly he was a hunk of rock destined for the dump rather than an artistic masterpiece.

 _This isn’t your pain_ , he told himself as he stepped out of the OR. _You don’t feel anything about this. Let the father react how he wishes to react_.

He knew these things. He wasn’t sure why he repeated them to himself. Maybe he wanted to convince himself that he _needed_ the reminder; that emotion was his default instead of the limbo he usually induced in his own heart.

When was the last time he’d felt like a person?

The father of Im Norae was distinct among those surrounding the pediatric ward’s desk; his eyes were wild with confusion and terror, but his body was shaking with the effort to contain it all. He reminded Jinyoung of cinnamon lattes and bitter coffee grounds.

Jinyoung’s brain finally kicked into high gear. “ _Jaebeom_?”

Jinyoung had been a touch foolish to think Jaebeom would calm down at the sight of him; in fact, he only seemed to grow more distraught— _angrier_ —at the sight of Jinyoung. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Then his eyes traced Jinyoung from head to toe, the way a predator would it’s half-rotten meal, and he blanched. “Are you the one operating on Norae?”

 _I don’t know why you’re complaining,_ Jaebeom had said to the person who’d called him. _I know you love her_.

He’d been talking about Norae.

 _Shit_.

“I am.”

“What’s—” Jaebeom’s voice gave out, jaw clenched so tightly Jinyoung feared he’d need to be sent to a whole other doctor.

“She was in the school bus that crashed,” Jinyoung answered without future prompt. “One of the beams from the seat in front of her broke through the leather and pierced her heart. We did our best to—”

“Shut your mouth,” Jaebeom seethed. “No. You’re going to go back in there and you are going to rip out your _own_ arteries, or whatever the fuck you need, and _give her back to me._ ”

Scars were more than just oddly coloured tissue your body produced to save your life; they were ticks that displayed themselves when you were stressed, internal just as much as they were external. Jinyoung could see Jaebeom’s scars clearly, as if they were laid out in an anatomical diagram for him to understand and operate on.

“Your daughter is fine for now,” he said in his best soothing voice. “Her heart was too damaged to repair, so we needed an emergency transplant. She’s been put on bypass, which is acting as her heart until we’re able to put the new one in her body.”

“Too damaged to repair,” Jaebeom spat, “or _too complex for you?”_

Jinyoung was starting to see the appeal in punching people who talked shit.

“Mr. Im, I understand that you’re under a lot of stress—”

“If you kill my daughter,” Jaebeom interjected, “I will have no qualms about killing you.”

The only other person to hear the threat was Nurse Kim behind the desk, who looked ready to call security. Jinyoung only shook his head.

“I’m good at my job, Mr. Im. Your daughter is in the best hands she can be.”

Jaebeom seemed to have run out of words, chest heaving as he turned on his heel and walked out the doors.

“Dr. Park,” Nurse Kim called, “I can still call security. He may be a threat.”

Again, Jinyoung shook his head. “He’ll only be a threat to himself, Nurse Kim.”

“Dr. Park, he threatened your life.”

“Because I’m the biggest threat to his daughter’s. I’ll be okay. Please don’t throw him out.” _For whatever reason, he already doesn’t like hospitals. Or maybe it’s a thing with doctors._ Jinyoung had seen the scars, but he certainly needed more time to understand what had caused them.

 _Im Jaebeom_. What an odd creature. It wasn’t uncommon for the quieter parents to become the most distraught, but this had an edge to it that Jinyoung could not understand. Something had to have happened to turn the timid, calm barista into a bundle of undispensed, devastating emotion. Jinyoung hadn’t been joking when he said Jaebeom was the biggest threat to himself.

And because Jinyoung was in the business of doing the least damage as possible, he began putting a plan in place to dampen the effects of Jaebeom’s impending explosion.

But then his pager went off in screeching beeps, and whatever plans Jinyoung had planned were thwarted. _The heart._

For the brief moment where he dug his heel in and felt his heart leap into his throat, he felt . . . _human_. Filled with something other than a cool, life-saving calm.

As he ran, Jinyoung pulled out his phone and dialed a number that was older that mountains yet familiar as breath.

“Hey,” he panted, “can you do me a favour?”


	7. Scar Tissue (That I Wish You Saw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES i love scar tissue by the red hot chili peppers WHAT ABOUT IT

He really should have said no, but when it came to Park Jinyoung, it seemed that the right answer was always “yes.” Which is what brought Jackson here, scouring the parking garage in search of a man who looked equal parts angry and scared.

“Jinyoung, what kind of description is _that?”_ This was a hospital; everyone was some combination of those things.

“Trust me,” was all Jinyoung had said. “You’ll know him when you see him.”

If Jackson hadn’t been able to sense the urgency in Jinyoung’s voice, he would have torn him a new one for sending him on a wild goose chase for a man he didn’t even know. If he was going to be here, he’d rather be here for _Aimee_ , but . . .

 _Jinyoung_ had asked.

“I’m an idiot,” Jackson sighed. And he was. Doubly so for Jinyoung.

“You’re not even together anymore,” he muttered. “What the fuck are you doing, running around for him?”

 _It’s the least I can do. We broke up because of_ me _._

Which wasn’t entirely fair. Back then, they had been an up-and-coming CEO and an aspiring pediatric surgeon. Jackson had been married to his work, but it wasn’t as if Jinyoung had an abundance of time to give him either.

Jackson dropped his head back, breath leaving him in a sarcastic huff. “I can’t believe we thought we’d work.”

He also couldn’t believe that he was still wondering “how high” when Jinyoung asked him to jump.

Jackson scrubbed his hands over his face, a bad habit that might grant him a breakout and his dermatologist’s wrath. He was being childish; Jinyoung had agreed to watch over Aimee, had looked glad to see him when Seo had marched right back into the building. There was still something there, between them, begging for just a little bit of air so it could breathe again.

But Jackson had no air left to give, and Jinyoung wanted little to do with him, so there was no choice but to let it die.

If nothing else, Jackson could thank him for giving him an opportunity to spend some time out of the hospital. He didn’t have to be back at the office until tomorrow morning, which opened him up to more hours with Aimee—

And he would be lying if he said that that didn’t terrify him.

The hospital spelled danger and unpleasant memories for Jackson. His hands reflexively reached for his throat as his eyes began to sting. He was going to reach a hand up to wipe away the tears that had barely gathered on his lashes, but he spotted someone staring at him with a chilly heat.

Oh. Not just _someone._

Jaebeom’s knuckles were white where they gripped his elbows, eyes turned to slits from the way he tilted his head back against the pillar behind him. Terrified, furious.

“I heard you gave the hospital staff quite the scare.”

He got no response. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, anyway. “Look,” he continued, “I know you blew up at Jinyoung.”

The man at the pillar narrowed his eyes even further. “What are you doing here?”

Jackson shrugged. “I was here visiting my niece. Jinyoung asked me to come find you before you did something stupid.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jaebeom spat.

“Then consider this a favour to me. You’re keeping me company.”

“Shouldn’t you be with your niece?”

Jackson wasn’t oblivious to the way Jaebeom’s voice softened when he said that. “Aimee’s going to be stuck here until I can get her bastard of a father on the phone, so . . . There’s a lot of chances to spend time with her.” _And I’ll probably only take half of them_.

“Don’t think you have all the time in the world to spend with her.”

“I don’t. But—” Oh, how to say this without coming across like a baby . . .

Jackson shook his head. “Never mind. Are you going to be okay?”

“What answer do you want to hear?”

“The righteous part of my brain says the truth, the rest of it is begging you to say something nice for me to repeat back to Jinyoung.”

At the mention of Jinyoung, Jaebeom tensed up. “Park Jinyoung,” he muttered. “I don’t trust him with Norae.”

Jackson prided himself on being an understanding individual, but that threw him for a loop. “Sorry?”

“The first time I met him,” Jaebeom said, “I invited him into my shop, and he was pretty much delirious. I don’t want a man like that talking to my daughter, let alone _swapping out her heart._ ”

“Did he have his laptop with him?”

Jaebeom jerked in surprise. “Um, yeah?”

“He seem in a rush?”

Reluctantly, Jaebeom nodded. “It was all I could do to get him inside.”

 _Oh Jinyoung, you beautiful, self-destructive bastard_. “When he loses a patient,” Jackson explained, “he sort of . . . retreats. Takes his shit home so he can crawl into a hole and never come out. I’m not saying it’s smart or that I recommend it, but Jaebeom—I swear to you that there is no one better suited to save your daughter.”

Jaebeom remained unconvinced. “He’s still a doctor.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jackson agreed, voice drawn out, “because a clown would try to turn your daughter’s intestines into a balloon animal.”

Jaebeom didn’t appreciate the joke in the slightest. “At least the clown wouldn’t get away with it.”

And as if the clouds—or rather, the ceiling of the parking garage—had opened up, Jackson began to understand what it was that caused Jaebeom such heartache. “You don’t trust the entire system.”

“You’re a fool if you do.”

“What happened?” Jackson asked instead.

Jaebeom had no shame in sliding down the pillar and plopping onto the ground, gaze removed. Jackson, however, could only hear BamBam’s ticked-off rambling about how designer suits were not made to sit in the dust and leaves of hospitals.

Jackson sat anyway.

“My fiancé got into an accident a few years ago,” Jaebeom said. “Everyone walked away fine—even the cars took minor hits—but she said she needed to go to the ER because her chest hurt. It wasn’t insane to imagine she was having a heart attack, so I took her. The doctors brushed her off, saying she was just shaken up from the accident. She was pregnant, after all; every woman is always _way too sensitive_ when they’re pregnant.” Jackson nearly flinched at the sarcasm. “She went home. Her heart didn’t stop hurting. But she went to work, and so did I, because everything was fine.

“Then she called me, and she sounded like she’d just run a marathon. Long story short, I tried to get her back to the ER on time.”

Jackson’s heart was writhing in his throat. The way Jaebeom was now looking at him certainly didn’t help.

“She died in the passenger seat. They barely managed to save Norae. The only thing I have to give of her mother is _stories_ , and all because no one took Soona at her word that she was _dying_ —because no matter what someone says about their own body or their own intuition, they’re silenced for the sake of a paycheck or some doctor’s ego.”

Jackson had no words, just the erratic feeling in his chest that was both compassion and sympathy, too distant to qualify as empathy.

 _But not distant enough_.

Like picking at an old scab now scarring over, he remembered his time years ago, stuck to a bed with no one to hear him. “Would telling you my own tragic backstory make you feel any better?”

Jaebeom wasn’t offended by the question, but his mood didn’t lift any either. “If it’ll make you feel better, go ahead.”

“So caring,” Jackson teased. He was about to surmise his childhood in a way that made Jaebeom’s circumstances seem less terrifying, but his phone went off before he could.

 **Ji(nyoungie)**  
 **Could you tell Im that his daughter is headed to the ICU?**  
 **Everything went well, and Norae should make a good recovery**.

“But there are more important things.” Jackson showed Jaebeom his phone screen. “Jinyoung cares about his patients more than any doctor in the world, Jaebeom. She couldn’t be in better hands.”

Jaebeom was up in a flash, tripping over himself as he made for the doors. He froze just before he opened them. “Surgeons don’t get involved with patients after they leave the OR. So it doesn’t matter is he’s as great as you say.”

Jackson shrugged, unable to combat the smile forming on his lips. “I asked him about that once. He said, ‘patient care trumps policy and etiquette.’ The real reason is that no one can resist visiting the kids when they have free time. Especially Jinyoungie.”

Jaebeom blinked. “You seem fond of him.”

 _Am I_ that _obvious?_ “It’s hard not to be when he has such a good heart. Now _go_ , because your daughter is going to want to see you when she wakes up.”

Which wouldn’t be for several hours, but Jackson . . . wanted to be alone. For once. He loosened his tie, everything suddenly too tight, shuffling over to the sliding glass doors to the left of where Jaebeom had just left. The reflection wasn’t perfect, but Jackson knew what to look for regardless of the quality:

Three scars, each of them a different detriment to the dreams of his younger self, mangled and ugly and pathetic.

He’d never been fond of hospitals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway--


End file.
